


Snape Would Be A Terrible Sex Shop Owner (working title)

by swishyclang



Series: Fanatical Fam Ficlets [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Everybody Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27543775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishyclang/pseuds/swishyclang
Summary: "tbh I think landscaper/sex shop owner should be the hot new AU. florist/tattoo artist AU but make it 2020" - Tumblr user thedoubteriswise"Harry is a regular at the sex shop Draco works at and keeps pretending he wants to buy things for his imaginary partner, but really just wants to try them on Draco. Neville runs his landscaping business from the shop next door, and Harry always hangs out there to complain about how hopeless his crush is. Shenanigans ensue." - the Fanatical Fam"Oh, well, I guess I'll start writing." - meI'd like to thankRaefor being one of the main providers of a lot of the story ideas that found their way into this fic - thanks, Rae!
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: Fanatical Fam Ficlets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2013301
Comments: 61
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

"It's just so _hard_ , being the Chosen One, you know?"

Neville sighed as he adjusted the soil composition for his new variety of Fire-Breathing Snapdragon. "Mm hm?" he said, trying to look vaguely sympathetic.

"I knew you'd get it, Neville," said Harry, gazing tragically at the African Violet opposite him. The African Violet was the only plant Neville allowed Harry near, because even Harry's tendency to gesture sweepingly when he was excited (or his tendency to cry dramatically onto the tabletop when another reporter had insulted him) couldn't kill that plant. Neville had bred it himself, and it was indestructible even by African Violet standards. "You're such a good friend."

"Mm hmm," said Neville, adding a pinch more magnesium. _There, that should do it_. His latest client had demanded a white flame, and Longbottom's Landscaping was not about to disappoint a customer.

Harry laid his head on the table in the corner of Neville's back room. "Did I mention yet that I'm the Chosen One and it's _really hard_?"

"Yes," said Neville, choosing not to add that it had been several years since Harry had last done anything "Chosen One"-ish, and that getting a job that did not involve lounging around in the back room of Neville's landscaping business pining after Draco Malfoy would maybe be an excellent idea. Speaking of, Neville peered hopefully out of the staff entryway towards Moste Potente Dildos, which was - _thank wizard god -_ now open. "I think I just saw Malfoy starting work," he lied.

"Oh, brilliant! Thanks, Nev!" Harry said, scrambling to his feet with all the grace and poise of a newborn blobfish. "D'you want me to get you anything while I'm out?"

_A new will to live?_ Neville thought. "No thanks, Harry. You go get him. Maybe this time make it clear you don't have a boyfriend?"

Harry scowled. "Look, I needed an excuse to buy something! Some _things_. Repeatedly. It's not my fault!"

"Yes, but, y'know..." Neville wondered why he bothered sometimes. "Courting is generally more successful if both parties are aware of the whole... y'know... thing," he finished awkwardly.

"Oh, shut up," Harry grumbled, and crossed the street to the sex shop where Draco Malfoy worked.

Neville wondered when Harry would find out who Draco worked _for_ , and whether he, Neville, would suffer for it when he did. He sighed, turning back to his Fire-Breathing Snapdragon. Who was he fooling? Of course he would.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel it would be rude not to thank the wonderful [Treirina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treirina) for her help coming up with a name for Snape's sex shop - thank you, Treirina! Check out her works [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treirina/works)!

"M- morning, Draco," said Harry, trying to pose casually in the doorway of Moste Potente Dildos. He failed, because of course he did, and stumbled slightly on the large rainbow "ALL WELCOME" mat as he entered.  


"Potter." Draco Malfoy deigned to acknowledge him, lounging on the counter in a way that communicated both 'fuck off, I am far too good for you' and 'don't you want to try, though?' at the same time. "What does dear Pierre require this time?"  


Harry had invented "Pierre" the moment it became obvious that having an imaginary boyfriend would be beneficial to his wellbeing. That is, the moment he had walked into Moste Potente Dildos after mistaking it for Neville's landscaping shop, realised his error, and also realised that Draco Malfoy was quite hot, actually, and it would behoove Harry to try to make him jealous.  


So far, Draco had failed to erupt into a jealous rage, even though Harry had bought far more pairs of fluffy handcuffs and flavoured condoms than he could possibly ever need. Hermione had suggested trying something a little racier than handcuffs and condoms, but her enthusiasm on the subject had rather disturbed Harry. Handcuffs and condoms were just fine, and what else _should_ he be buying at a sex shop anyway, Hermione?  


He had regretted asking that.  


And so Harry turned up at Moste Potente Dildos a couple of times a week to talk nonchalantly at Draco about his boyfriend Pierre, who was French, you know, and very rich and attractive and cultured. And to buy cheap handcuffs covered in various colours of fluff. And to see if Draco was ready to jump him out of jealousy yet. The rest of the time, Harry spent at Neville's shop across the street, helping Neville out.  


(Neville might have objected to this description, but Neville wasn't here and Harry needed to feel better about himself in the face of Draco's continued apparent indifference to the existence of "Pierre", okay?)  


"Potter?"

Draco's voice broke into Harry's musings, startling him a little. Had he been staring? Oh wizard god, had he been _drooling_? Harry wiped his face surreptitiously with his sleeve. No drool. Good. "Er... yes?" he managed.  


"We have some new shades of puce in," said Draco, gesturing towards the section where Harry usually lingered (the fluffy handcuffs were over there, and also the best view of the tills in the shop), "if your _beloved_ Pierre is bored of hot pink already."  


"Er." Draco really was very attractive. Harry wanted to bite him.  


_No, wait_. Biting was not a very loving or heroic thing to do, and Harry prided himself on being heroic and also full of love. The power of love was almost certainly the reason Harry was still alive, because he certainly hadn't done anything else to achieve that. _No biting Draco_ , Harry thought to himself firmly. Except that now all he could think about was biting Draco, and it wasn't helping.  


"I... have to go," Harry said, trying for suave and probably hitting 'deranged'. He tried to think about heroic, loving things on his way back across the street to ~~bother~~ help Neville.  


He kept thinking about biting Draco Malfoy.  



	3. Chapter 3

Neville was softly singing a surprisingly tuneful rendition of 'Buttons' when Harry wandered into his back room the following Thursday.

" _I'm a sexy_ _mama_ ," mumbled Neville, wiggling slightly as he stirred his latest batch of Premium Longbottom Compost, " _who knows just how to get what I wa-_ "

"Neville! I didn't know you could sing!" Harry exclaimed, as he bounced over to his usual corner. "You're not bad, y'know."

Neville, who had paused, then stopped wiggling and was now stirring his compost rather violently, cruelly ignored Harry's freely given compliment. Harry noted absently that Neville's knuckles were turning sort of white on the handle of his stirring rod. "Hi, Harry," he said, shoulders slumping a little. "You don't usually stop in on a Thursday."

This was true. Harry had something of a routine going by now, and his Thursdays were more commonly spent ~~moping at~~ ~~bothering~~ ~~complaining in the vicinity of~~ talking with Hermione, while she wrote her latest articles for 'Yes! Glitter!', the Wizarding World's premiere political magazine. This Thursday, however, "Hermione's out with Ron and the kids - said she wanted "family time"." Harry pouted. "Do you think she's angry with me?"

"Surely not, Harry," said Neville, who was now stirring the vat in front of him with great vigor. "Why would she be?"

"Well, she did say she was sick and tired of my crushing ennui and clear dysthymia," Harry said, "but I don't know what that means so it's probably fine."

"Mm," said Neville. "You know," he added, when it was clear that Harry planned to stay for some time, "you should probably apologise to Malfoy for running out on him last time. He seemed really upset when he came over last week."

Harry sat up at once. "Draco? Came here? To ask about me?"

Neville suddenly looked a little uncomfortable. "Well... not to ask about you specifically. His employer wanted him to... er... berate me about my decor," he said.

Harry looked around. The back room was rather messy, but he knew for a fact (because he spent most of his life at Longbottom's Landscaping these days) that the front of the shop was a homey, warm honey colour and was decorated with Neville's special Scribbling Vines. Neville had bred them himself, and they spelled out short phrases that Neville had grown into the maturing plants' magic. Few people actually visited Neville's shop in person - he mostly did larger jobs for rich purebloods who made their ~~demands~~ orders by Floo - but Harry was sure Neville did just fine. And the decor was brilliant; Harry didn't understand. Which, to be honest, was pretty par for the course, but still.

"Why does Draco's employer care what your shop looks like?" he asked.

Neville sighed. He seemed to do a lot of that when Harry was around, but for once Harry was fairly certain it wasn't directed at him. "Apparently I'm bad for business. _His_ business. He's blaming me because no one will go into his shop."

" _I_ go into his shop!" Harry protested. "All the time!"

"Yes, and you buy a single packet of flavoured condoms and one pair of handcuffs," said Neville. "Do you ever see anyone else in there?"

Harry thought about it. "I see Draco?"

Neville nodded, satisfied. "Exactly. Draco Malfoy and S- the owner, and you. You're the only people who go inside. Lots of people like to hang around on the street and point at it, but no one goes in."

"Poor Draco," said Harry, mournfully. He stroked the African Violet, detaching several leaves. Realising that Neville was rolling his eyes, Harry added, "And the owner, obviously. He must be very sad that no one wants to buy his sex toys if he's sending Draco over here to complain at you."

"Yes..." Neville turned to look at Harry for the first time that day. He looked... speculative? "You know, it would really be a huge favour to me if you could go over there and buy something expensive," he said, lips quirking slightly. "Maybe it would shut S- er, _him_ up about my shopfront." Seeing that Harry didn't look convinced, Neville added, entirely straight-faced, "And it would really impress Malfoy, of course. Because... um... he likes money?"

Harry didn't notice either the strangeness of Neville's expression, nor the oddness of his request. He had a _mission_. A _quest_. A noble one, to help a friend, moreover! "I'll do it," he said firmly, laying a comforting hand on Neville's shoulder as he walked by. Neville had turned abruptly back to his compost, and looked to be staring at it with great concentration, but his shoulders shook a little as Harry departed and Harry realised he must indeed be very upset about the accusations from the owner of Moste Potente Dildos.

It was a pity Neville was so upset, Harry thought, as he strode purposefully across the street, since he hadn't even offered Harry any tea. But Harry was the Chosen One, and he would make things alright for Neville. It was his duty as the Wizarding World's beloved hero.

Harry glared righteously at the Moste Potente Dildos sign, and opened the door.


	4. Chapter 4

If anyone else had been present at Moste Potente Dildos that mildly overcast Thursday morning, the scene they would have witnessed probably would have gone something like this:

Harry Potter, burning with righteous anger on behalf of a friend, strode confidently into the shop and for once did not make a beeline for either the tills or the corner with the fluffy handcuffs. Instead, he walked directly up to the shop's central display, which featured such items as the Purple Plunderer, the Estella's Embrace, and the Doctor Wankenstein™. Fuelled by noble intent (or possibly mild discomfort), Harry gave the display nary a glance, and looked only for the highest price label. Finding said label on a disturbingly long and waggly tentacle-like object, he grabbed it with what he hoped was a purposeful look and made his way virtuously towards the tills. He did not seem to register until he arrived that Draco Malfoy was not manning said tills this morning.

Severus Snape, owner of Moste Potente Dildos, had been having a lovely Thursday. The weather was average, perhaps even a little miserable, which suited Snape very well. Only three former students had passed by his shop window to point and laugh by eleven o'clock, which wasn't bad at all. Yesterday evening, he had worked very hard to remodel the shop's central display to make it more appealing to browsing customers. If he were ever to get any. He had been very proud of the resultant plethora of dildos, vibrators, and other sexual aids. He had based the design on the Iron Throne from a television show he was very fond of, and he was fairly sure at least one of the three former students who came by to point and laugh had noticed and approved. It had been a pleasant morning.

Until _Potter_ walked in, and ruined his display by removing the centrepiece.

He reluctantly made eye contact with Potter as the brat dropped the Arm of Adam ("Guaranteed to reach all your most sensitive areas! At the same time!") onto the counter. Potter looked at him with Lily Evans' eyes, almost daring Snape to say something about the enormous sex toy in front of him.

The two men stared silently at each other for longer than was really appropriate. Eventually, Snape blinked. "That will be one hundred and twenty three galleons," he conceded grudgingly.

Potter paid, without breaking eye contact, and left, also without breaking eye contact, crossing the street to Longbottom's Landscaping _also without breaking eye contact_. Snape felt faintly ill.

He scowled at the empty space in his central display. This was a terrible Thursday. And it was all Potter's fault, as usual.


	5. Chapter 5

Neville, who had been wracked with guilt the moment Harry had left his shop, prepared his best herbal tea in anticipation of a tantrum. _Harry_ would not call it a tantrum, of course (he would probably blame any yelling on a flare-up of his scar, despite the fact that Voldemort had been defeated many years ago), but Neville was a simple man with simple needs (including the need to be left alone with his plants, thanks very much, Harry, and _no, not like that, just - I - ugh_ ) and he liked calling things what they were.

...Except for his herbal tea. He preferred to go right on calling it "herbal tea", since it was blatantly illegal without a prescription and the Aurors only let him keep it for "nerves".

Harry returned bearing a white face, a shellshocked expression, and a very large... dildo? Could something with that many tentacles be called a dildo? Neville sipped at his tea, suddenly very glad he had brewed it in advance. When Harry made his way to his usual corner without acknowledging Neville and sat down with a blank-eyed thud, still very pale, Neville offered, "Tea?"

Harry didn't move. His thousand-yard stare was fixed and terrified.

Neville made him some "herbal tea".

They sat together in what was, for Neville, the quietest and most relaxing time he had ever experienced in Harry's presence before. Neville never noticed Harry moving, but the tea level in front of Harry kept going down, and gradually Harry began to focus on the world again. "Back with us?" asked Neville, carefully.

Harry blinked, seeming to suddenly realise Neville was there. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. His eyes widened with remembered horror as he gaped. It was not an attractive look.

"Harry?" Neville prompted.

Harry swallowed convulsively and gripped the edge of the table tightly. "S-" he tried.

Neville did his best to look encouraging, subtly shifting the alarming maybe-dildo out of Harry's line of sight.

Eventually, Harry managed to croak a single word, infusing it with all the confusion, dismay, and abhorrence it deserved. "...Snape."

Neville nodded solemnly. "I know," he said, in his best comforting tone. He patted Harry gingerly on the arm, like he would pet the beak of a deranged and rabid hippogriff (that is, with great, _great_ caution). "I know."


	6. Chapter 6

Despite the fact that Neville admitted that he had been the one to send Harry on his traumatising adventure, knowing full well what awaited the Chosen One at the end of his quest, Harry forgave him immediately.

"Really?" Neville blinked. "That was easy."

"I forgave Dumbledore for kidnapping me as a baby and illegally assigning my custody to the Dursleys, leaving me completely ignorant of the wizarding world for my entire childhood, and sending me back to Privet Drive every year even though he was my headteacher and didn't have any say in where I lived outside of school," said Harry, as though that was some kind of explanation.

Which... maybe it was. "Er... should you have?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno, but don't look a gift thestral in the mouth, hey mate?"

Neville promised firmly that he would not go anywhere near any thestrals' mouths, gifts or not, and made them both some more "herbal tea".

"Y'know... Nev'lllllllllll..." said Harry, some time later. "You're... nice. Soooooooooooooo nice. To plants."

"I am," Neville agreed cautiously, wondering if he'd maybe given Harry too much tea.

Harry was silent for a while, focusing _very hard_ on stroking the leaves of the African Violet. A few dropped off in protest. "Snape. Is not nice," he eventually declared.

Neville nodded. "He's not," he said, since Harry was nodding back with increasing vigor and Neville sort of wanted him to get to the point.

"S'not _nice_ to - to - be not nice," Harry said.

Neville was tempted to ask what Harry wanted _him_ to do about it, but realised just in time that that would be a terrible idea because then Harry really would expect him to do something about it. Harry was the sort of person who Did Things About Bad Things - or, at least, he had been back at Hogwarts. These days he mostly Talked About Doing Things About Bad Things. Neville was the sort of person who hid in his shop and reluctantly listened to Harry, whilst trying not to give in to the urge to set his Venomous Tentacula on the Chosen One.

"Snape. He's bad," Harry continued, apparently working through something. "And yooooooou... are nice. To plants."

Neville liked to think he was quite nice to people as well as plants, but he couldn't deny which he preferred.

"Y'should... y'know... plant him."

"I should plant Snape?"

Harry scowled. "No, d'be stupid Nev." Exhausted by moving his own facial features, Harry rested his head on the cool tabletop and closed his eyes. It muffled his voice somewhat, so all Neville could hear after that was, "Yff shff pllkm wff plhttts."

Fortunately, Neville had had many years of practice at listening to Harry talk in his sleep.

"I should... prank him with plants?" he repeated, more uncertain of his interpretation of half-asleep Harry than he had been in some time. Sadly, Harry had already passed out. Neville sighed, draped a nice warm blanket over Harry's snoring form, and gathered a pile of parchmentwork to do while he ensured Harry did not expire in his sleep. He had absolutely no intention of pranking Snape. None. For one thing, he had never played a prank in his life. For another, his shop was _directly opposite Snape's_ , and he had no wish to start some kind of horrific sex toy-based war with his old Potions professor.

Except... Harry had said _plants_ , hadn't he?

Neville's eyes slid to the Scribbling Vine cuttings he had taken only yesterday morning.


	7. Chapter 7

Severus Snape, owner of the Wizarding World's ~~Only~~ Premier Sex Shop, scowled across the street at Longbottom's Landscaping. He had been quite content with the lack of customers his shop lured in - or, if not content, at least sullenly resigned to it - until now. Longbottom's pitiful gardening business had been almost equally deserted in recent years, and although Snape was reluctantly aware Longbottom did a reasonable amount of business during home visits he had comforted himself with the thought that, if the street was quiet, at least it wasn't entirely because nobody wanted to buy sex toys from their old Potions professor.

Now, however, there was a queue forming outside Longbottom's Landscaping. A _queue_.

He had already sent Draco over to hand out "free samples" to the captive audience (Snape might enjoy the lamentations of the innocent at the sight of him, but he was aware that sending a pretty face to do his bidding was at least as effective as driving customers to tears with a single sneer). Snape hadn't been able to shift a single Horny Hippogriff™ since he'd purchased a job lot several years ago, so it was with little regret that he watched Draco try to press the terrifying taloned toys upon middle aged witches who should really know better than to patronise a shop run by the most blundering dunderhead Snape had ever had the displeasure of teaching. Draco did not seem to be having much luck. A pity.

Of course, Draco had also been sent to gather intelligence. Such a sudden boom in Longbottom's popularity was suspicious. Snape was fairly certain it was Potter's fault. Potter did not, technically, have anything to do with Longbottom's business, but Snape wasn't going to be fooled. Snape _knew_ Potter. He would not be deceived by something as simple as the name on a business. Nor the fact that Potter was abysmal at Herbology. Nor the fact that he hadn't even realised that Potter was still in touch with Longbottom until Potter had turned up to buy his very best dildo _and no he was not dwelling on that, thank you._

Snape did know, now, after an incredibly subtle and Slytherin interrogation of his sole employee -

( _"Draco, Potter was here."_

_"Oh, really? He doesn't usually visit on Thursdays."_

_"WHAT?!"_

_"...Potter is here all the time, Severus. He fancies me, you see. It's rather fun to watch him turn purple and try to be suave."_

_"..."_

_"By the way, he likes chocolate flavoured condoms."_

_"...!"_

_"Are you all right, Severus?"_ )

\- that the best way to find out what Potter was up to would be to send Draco. He peered ~~enviously~~ disdainfully out of the window, lurking behind the dark curtains (as was only appropriate when spying on a ~~former student~~ fellow businessman). The queue was getting _longer_. People were going into the shop by the dozen, each leaving with one particular thing: a small potted bush that looked to be oddly perfectly pruned for something so delicate, but otherwise perfectly ordinary.

It was clearly a ploy to hide whatever nefarious deed Potter was undertaking under the cover of Longbottom's business. Snape nodded decisively. He would have to plan his counterattack carefully.


	8. Chapter 8

The ~~gossip~~ intelligence Draco had brought back from his expedition across the street had been less than illuminating. Apparently, Longbottom had somehow created an entirely new subspecies out of some kind of tiny tree and his patented Scribbling Vines. It was proving disgustingly popular. _Hogwarts_ had sent in an order for four - one for each common room. Snape was livid. They'd certainly never asked to place any of _his_ prized creations in the common rooms. It was an outrage. Snape, of course, expressed his outrage in a very mature and refined manner, by closing early, throwing some un-shelved dildos at a picture of Potter that he'd cut out of _Witch Weekly,_ and getting very, very drunk.

The fact that everyone seemed to emerge from Longbottom's Landscaping with a thoroughly objectionable smile on their face was just salt in the wound. No one had ever left Moste Potente Dildos with that sort of expression. What good was Longbottom disgracing the name of wizard with his stupid _plants_ and his _heroism_ and his _caring about_ _people_ if everyone was just going to pat him on the back and _make him rich_! Unconscionable. Snape shuddered. Why, it was practically his duty to bring Longbottom down. The fact that he would be taking Potter down at the same time was just a bonus, even though Potter obviously deserved it for being so very, very hateable.

It was his face, Snape mused to himself. And his hair. And his voice. And his glasses, and his ratty jumpers and his insolent, slouching walk and his self-righteous tone and wizard-god damn it his _face_ , right? It was the worst face.

...

Draco found Severus in the backroom of the shop the following morning, smelling strongly of Firewhiskey, curled up around a box of Sensual Centaur Salvation and sobbing quietly.


	9. Chapter 9

Snape had taken a break from Moste Potente Dildos for a few days, for his health -

("I will murder you with my own hands," said Draco, the third day he'd found Snape ~~lurking~~ reconnoitering at the window, scowling across the street at the continued queue outside his ~~nemesis'~~ ~~former student's~~ fellow businessman's shop, "and then I will call _my father_ in to help me dispose of the body. I'll never be caught. He's had practice. And also he's incredibly rich and will bribe the Wizengamot to look the other way. It's practically family tradition..."

Snape had escaped while Draco was getting caught up in his plans to corrupt government officials using his father's money. Best he leave that conversation to Lucius.)

\- and had decided that he needed company that wasn't Draco Malfoy. Well. First he had gone to brood at Lily's graveside (and draw a moustache on Potter-the-elder's). When that turned out to be less satisfying than expected he'd decamped for Diagon Alley (okay, so, he'd drawn an accompanying penis, _then_ decamped for Diagon Alley). Ostensibly the visit was to restock his ~~lube~~ potions supplies, but he was curious to see if he would feel better if he wasn't staring directly at evidence of his own failures.

The Leaky Cauldron had one of Longbottom's infernal new plants. A sizeable crowd seemed to be hovering in its vicinity, sniggering, probably over some inane young person talk. Snape was far too dignified to be curious. He hadn't seen one of the ridiculous things up close yet, but at first sight it was certainly unremarkable. Why in wizard-god's name was everyone so fascinated by these plants?

A new wave of snorts and muffled laughter arose from the crowd around the plant. Snape was still far too dignified to be curious. He ordered a pint from the barkeep - some blonde girl he'd obviously taught at some point, because she squeaked when she saw him - and surveyed the room from the bar.

The knot of chuckling lunatics still surrounded the little plant in the corner. The barkeep cast a nervous glance at Snape, and very unsubtly joined the crowd around the plant, whispering in a few ears. Snape had to admit to a _little_ curiosity when several people's heads swivelled incredibly obviously in his direction, but said curiosity was quickly swallowed by entirely justified rage when they all started sniggering again. Looking at _him_ , and sniggering. Snape stood up.

As he approached, it was like some sort of signal had been given - the cretinous crowd froze, and then dissipated immediately, leaving Snape's path to the stupid little vine bush clear. Somewhat gratifying. _I've still got it_ , he crowed to himself.

He examined the plant thoroughly, even taking out his tools to gather a clipping when -

"No cuttings," squeaked the barkeep, from behind a nearby table that she had been cleaning for a solid seven minutes, eyes entirely on him. His glare made her visibly shake but she stood her ground. "Nev- er, Mr Longbottom made us promise."

\- Snape growled, but he didn't want to be kicked out of the only public entrance to Diagon Alley, so he pocketed his tools again and settled for a visual examination. The plant was incredible in its unexceptional dullness. Oh, certainly, breeding vines that grew in such an unusually uniform shape was a curiosity, but that was all. Nothing about the plant gave Snape any ideas as to why it was so very popular.

Eventually, he abandoned his inspection to return to his pint. The lingering members of the group who had been clustered around it gathered in the corner again, tentatively this time, but soon relaxed enough to continue their inane sniggering and glances his way. Even the barkeep smirked a little when he paid his tab later that evening.

This was unacceptable. Snape was going to have to buy one of Longbottom's plants.


	10. Chapter 10

Pansy Parkinson's annual garden party was the social event of the summer season. Even Hermione usually pretended she didn't have principles so that she could gush over Pansy's hors d'oevres and whatever the latest alcoholic beverage of choice happened to be. Hermione was surprisingly good at setting aside her principles for a party. Harry was, of course, obligated to make an appearance as the Vanquisher of Voldemort.

Knowing full well that Draco Malfoy was always in attendance, and certain that Draco was still utterly convinced that Harry was in a long term relationship with "Pierre", Harry tended to make excuses for his mysterious French boyfriend's absence that he was fairly sure had held up excellently for the past few years.

_("Yeah, Pierre had a... thing. A French thing..."_

_"Oh, no, sorry, Pierre had to... go..."_

_"Shut up, Ron, Pierre is definitely in the loo and will be right back! ...When his... bowel problems... er...")_

This year, Neville appeared to be the guest of honour. Pansy greeted their group at the door with air kisses and squeals of delight, and promptly latched on to Neville's arm. "You simply _must_ see the south gardens," she said to them all, dragging Neville by the arm towards the patio. "Neville-dear came around last week to build in a _beautiful_ maze, and -" Pansy paused and smirked. "Well. You'll have to wait and see, but it's _amazing_ , pun fully intended. You did wonderfully, Neville-dear."

Neville looked at Pansy with the comfort level of a terrified house elf faced with the prospect of an immaculate bathroom. As a man who lived with a house elf and also a crippling tendency to clean the bathroom when he was upset, Harry would know. He rather thought it served Neville right for not being supportive enough of Harry's Grand Wooing of Draco Malfoy.

"Could _Pierre_ not make it again, Potter?" Pansy asked him, a sly glint in her eyes.

This time, though. This time, Harry had prepared. "Actually," he said, smiling ~~awkwardly~~ blandly, "he's just running a little late. Portkeys, you know."

Pansy, Draco, and Neville all smiled placatingly. Hermione rolled her eyes. Ron had tuned out the moment "Pierre" was mentioned. Harry found it thoroughly insulting, but figured that three years of non-excuses in which "Pierre" completely failed to show his face to anyone other than Ron (who had been thoroughly bribed to say that Pierre was indeed very handsome and French and, yes, definitely existed) made that fair enough. He'd show them. They'd be sorry they'd not believed the Chosen One...

...In half an hour, when the escort he'd hired to pretend to be his devoted French boyfriend arrived. Then they'd see. Harry Potter was _not_ to be pitied.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry almost vibrated with excitement as he answered Pansy Parkinson's door for her for the third time. Pansy eyed him suspiciously from her seat next to Draco. She did not fully believe that Harry's ~~fake~~ very real and impressive boyfriend was actually going to turn up, no matter how Harry insisted. However, there were few other people Pansy thought would evoke such excitement from Harry. Draco was already at Pansy's side (though he had been fashionably late, of course); Ron, Hermione, and even Viktor had arrived with Harry (a surprise indeed - Pansy had thought that Viktor would be abroad for another month); and Snape had been told that the garden party began at eleven o'clock at night (so that Pansy's social obligation towards her former head of house was technically fulfilled, but also she had to spend as little time as possible in his company as the party was due to end promptly at midnight), so Pansy reluctantly concluded that there was no one other than "Pierre" that Harry could be so excited to greet at the door.

Well, not that Harry would have been _excited_ to greet Snape, precisely. But Pansy had heard from Draco that Harry had bought Snape's most enormous and intimidating dildo the other week and Pansy wondered if maybe Harry had had some kind of mental breakdown, which might include enthusiasm to lay eyes upon Severus Snape. What? It was possible.

The first two guests who had been received by Harry Potter, Vanquisher of Voldemort, had been appropriately obsequious. Pansy had made some obligatory introductory statements and promptly sent them off to enjoy the witchlight display in the western courtyard. The third guest was... Zacharias Smith? Wearing a _beret_?

Harry beamed smugly as he paraded Smith around the parlour, ostentatiously introducing him to various guests. "...my long-term boyfriend, Pierre," Pansy overheard him saying to a very uninterested older witch. "He's from France."

"Oui oui, hon hon hon," said Zacharias Smith, in a terrible French accent.

The older witch edged away discreetly, leaving Harry to bear down on Pansy and Draco, who had been watching Harry's progress around the room with mild disbelief and _great_ enjoyment.

( _"_ _He must really like you, Draco."_

 _"He does. It's hilarious."_ )

"Hi, Pansy," said Harry, dragging Zacharias Smith by the arm to her corner of the room. Harry then did an extremely obvious and exaggerated double-take. "Oh, Draco, I didn't see you there!" he exclaimed a little too loudly.

Draco smiled charmingly, causing Harry to flush bright red and flail his free hand alarmingly close to Pansy's glass of champagne. Pansy stifled a snicker. "That's quite all right, Potter," Draco said, eyeing Zacharias Smith with glee. "I can see you were simply _dazzled_ by your date."

Harry puffed out his chest, clearly delighted, and began to introduce Smith. Pansy felt a little bit sorry for him. Not much, but enough that she decided not to point out that Harry's Mysterious French Boyfriend Pierre was definitely Zacharias Smith in a beret. Harry probably knew that. Right? He wasn't being conned... _right_?

As Smith continued to punctuate every statement with some variation on "hon hon hon baguette", Pansy abandoned Draco to a doubtless highly entertaining conversation and slipped off to find Neville. She had to make sure.

***

"Oh, Harry's face-blind," Neville explained, when she found him hiding in a corner of the ballroom. "He probably doesn't realise it's Smith, but he's not being misled or anything."

Pansy allowed herself a brief sigh of relief. Alright. Face-blind, Draco could work with. Easily defrauded by a bloke with an egregious fake accent, not so much. "Thank you, Neville-dear. Draco is... _really_ enjoying Harry's courtship efforts," she explained with a smirk. "I wouldn't want to have to step in."

Neville nodded sagely for a moment, then stilled, apparently shocked. "Wait, Malfoy _knows_?"

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Of _course_ Draco knows, he's not an idiot. Unlike _some people_." She let her gaze rest pointedly on Harry and Smith, who were now conversing with an incredibly pained-looking Hermione Granger.

"Harry's not an -" Neville stopped abruptly. He sighed. "Never mind."


	12. Chapter 12

Severus Snape skulked around Pansy Parkinson's celebrated annual garden party, scowling his most personable scowl. He had even gone to the trouble of donning his least-black robes, which were, he thought, a fetching shade of Very Dark Grey. Only four people approached him that evening, despite his efforts to appear more amenable than usual.

The first had been Miss Parkinson herself. Snape begrudgingly admitted that Parkinson had done very well for herself since school. She had inherited her parents' wealth upon their sudden and unexpected demise three days after their beloved daughter had graduated Hogwarts. The circumstances of the Parkinsons' deaths had of course been thoroughly investigated (by an Auror cousin of Miss Parkinson, who had promptly retired a week after the "accidental death" verdict and was reportedly enjoying the high life in Monte Carlo), and Miss Parkinson herself had been "most distraught" according to the Daily Prophet, but she had "bravely pushed on", and tripled her parents' fortune with canny investments in the Muggle world within six months. As a result, Snape was, if not polite, at least marginally less rude than usual when Miss Parkinson welcomed him to her home.

"You simply _must_ see the new hedge maze, Severus," she gushed, leading him firmly away from a distinguished-looking group of guests and pushing him out of a patio door. "It's been _very_ popular tonight." She flitted away before Snape could object.

The second to approach Snape had been Draco, as Snape himself neared the hedge maze Miss Parkinson had been so insistent about. "Keep an eye out for Potter," was all Draco managed, before he was called away by Granger, who was holding court with her feet in Ronald Weasley's lap and her head on Viktor Krum's shoulder. Disgusting. Snape moved on, keen to erase the distasteful sight from his mind.

As it happened, the third and fourth people to venture into Snape's orbit that night came together, and one of them was Potter himself. Potter was clearly three sheets to the wind, and his companion equally plastered, because they actually _smiled_ when they saw Snape.

"Hi, Professor Snape!" Potter exclaimed, definitely unreasonably pleased to see someone from whom he had recently bought a terrifyingly large dildo.

"I have not been a professor for over a decade, Potter, as you well know," Snape informed the idiot. "Also, I hate you."

Potter blinked. "Really, sir? S'just... you're still all..." he waved an arm that might have been supposed to point vaguely at Snape himself, but instead unbalanced the imbecile so thoroughly that his marginally-less-drunk companion had to catch him before he fell over. Potter seemed to remember he had company at that point, and - to Snape's dismay - said, "Hey, P'fess'r, y'wanna meet m'boyfriend? S'French."

Snape did not want to meet Harry Potter's boyfriend. It did not seem as though Snape had a choice in this, however, as Potter had him cornered against the wall of the hedge maze, and Potter's boyfriend beamed gormlessly at his side.

"Bong jewer," said Potter's boyfriend. "Ah am Peeeeeeeeer. Hon hon."

When Snape merely stared, caught in a mix of horror and arse-clenching rage, Potter had the gall to pass out. Snape shoved Potter roughly off his shoulder, and the inebriated dolt fell conveniently into his boyfriend's arms - because of _course_ he did, the Great and Wonderful Potter would never be so unfortunate as to land on the ground, always with his entourage of adoring sycophants to catch him. Snape was about to bitterly stride into the maze to escape this fresh hell, when:

" _Snape is a butt-trumpet,_ " whispered a voice.

"Who said that?" Snape thundered, peering into the gloom.

"Who said what, sir?" asked Potter's boyfriend, now suddenly without the strange speech impediment he had started with.

"Somebody," Snape said, his voice as intimidating as he could make it, "called me a -"

" _Snape is a manky tosspot who can't get his end away,_ " whispered another voice.

Snape could feel his cheeks turning an unflattering shade of purple. "Potter!" he spat. "This is Potter's doing, I know it!" He reached towards the comatose Chosen One, but Potter's boyfriend warded him off.

"Listen, sir, I'm sure Harry is very sorry for whatever he's done this time," said Potter's boyfriend, "but I really should be getting him safely back to his mates; I doubt he'll spring for a tip if I let you murder him."

" _Severus Snape is a mingebag,_ " sing-songed another voice, slightly further away.

By this time, Snape was apoplectic with rage, and didn't care who or what he murdered as long as he could do so promptly, preferably with his bare hands. Since Potter's boyfriend was dragging Potter off down the path, Snape ground his teeth and followed the infuriating voices into the maze.


End file.
